Once I set the tree ablaze.
Softened my eyes so the lights blurred
and grew spikes of pink and yellow fire,
sharp twinkles spreading into ink blots,
glowing beams reaching for each other.
Now the lights are work. I put the tree up,
dash to the shops, pick up grandma.
They are a tangle, an expense, a chore.
But as I flick the switch and finally rest,
my now myopic, tired eyes soften again
and those laser beam magic wands
return across the years, offering their fire.
Deb Scudder wrote the novel The Hag in the Woods, and now concentrates on writing poetry. She lives and works in Lincolnshire, UK.
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